


Stripped

by sackoflemons



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Season 2, Recovery, Scars, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5683765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sackoflemons/pseuds/sackoflemons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chilton takes a vacation to recuperate after he's shot by Miriam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stripped

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to headbuttingbears for swapping headcanons with me about this originally and for helping me fix a few things :D

Greece was even more beautiful than it had looked in Chilton’s travel brochure. Pristine sandy beaches, cerulean ocean as far as the eye could see, and an abundance of warm sunshine that felt good on his winter-pale skin. Quite a change from Baltimore. He wanted to forget Baltimore even existed. He was grateful for the fact that he could not remember being shot, but the memories of his hospital stay would always be with him. Weeks of lying in bed, listening to the hum and beep of the machines, bored and frustrated out of his mind due to being unable to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time. Wondering if he was going to die, wondering if maybe that would have been better. Sometimes, when he looked out over the intense blue of the ocean from his hotel window, he wondered if maybe he was still in that hospital room, in a coma all along.

It was three days before Chilton was able to leave his (fortunately deserted) hotel pool and sit by the ocean. He almost got the courage to remove his shirt, but decided against it, his confidence melting away at the last second. The beach was crowded and he was probably already attracting stares as it was, with the wound on his cheek he was sure people could still see under his careful application of makeup. The long scar on his stomach would _really_ make people wonder what had happened to him. He didn’t want any pitying stares. He’d had enough of those to last a lifetime.

He stood up abruptly, brushing the sand off his shorts with slightly too much force. He could work on his tan at the hotel pool. Who needed the ocean view, anyway? He’d still have the sunshine. He used to have so much confidence. Too much, some would argue.

After an afternoon of lounging by the pool with only one close call (some laughing children had wandered out, seen him lying there alone and scrambling to cover his stomach with a towel, and had immediately gone back inside), he went back to his room. Glancing in the mirror, he saw that his tan was coming along nicely. Good. He’d have to get new makeup, but maybe it would make the scar less apparent.

What he really needed right now was a drink. Maybe that would help. He’d seen something about nearby bars in the hotel brochure; he could get out of the hotel _and_ get drunk. Perfect.

The bar he chose ended up being exactly what he wanted: crowded but dark, quick service, and strong drinks. It felt like heaven as he sat there, staring into the colorful, potent cocktail, letting the pounding music and the sound of dozens of conversations wash over him. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back from the heat of the crowded bar, but he didn’t care. It was like a dream and he never wanted to leave.

He awoke with a terrible headache the next morning, and it took him a full five minutes to remember where he was and where he’d been the night before. He untwisted himself from the crisp hotel sheets and looked at the bedside clock. 11:37 am. His head was pounding but he didn’t feel any nausea. In fact, he was _starving_. But was he starving enough to venture out into the piercingly bright world?

Moaning, he dragged himself off the bed and nearly fell on the floor trying to get to his suitcase. He had to put something on if he was going to order room service, but after just a few seconds of fishing through the suitcase, he gave up and threw the hotel’s robe over his naked body. He flopped onto the bed, room service menu in hand.

There was a knock at the door thirty minutes later, and Chilton opened it to see a very attractive young waiter, all dark curls and big eyes, standing behind the room service cart. He realized he was giving him an eyeful in the short robe, the soft white fabric bright against an expanse of tanned skin, but he didn't care. The young man was blushing; maybe he enjoyed the view.

“Are you enjoying your stay, sir?” the waiter asked after setting everything up. He seemed almost reluctant to leave, even after Chilton had given him a large tip.

“I am, thank you,” Chilton said, and he realized that this was the first time since his vacation began that he wasn’t intensely self-conscious while talking to someone. It helped that the waiter’s English was excellent so he didn’t have to use any of the Greek phrases he was probably butchering.

“I’m not supposed to be doing this, but…” he pulled out a pen and scribbled a number onto a napkin, placing it in Chilton’s hand. “My name is Markos, by the way. Call me tonight after six if you want.” He was looking at Chilton through his long lashes, not daring to make eye contact.

“Dr. Frederick Chilton. But you can call me Frederick.” Had this beautiful young Greek boy really given him his number?

“Enjoy your meal,” Markos said, suddenly in a hurry to leave. He closed the door softly behind him and Chilton sat, stunned, before remembering how hungry he was and tearing into his food.

It was 6:45 and Chilton was still staring at the napkin with Markos’ number on it. What was going to happen? No – what’s the _worst_ that could happen, and was it any worse than being shot in the face? He thought not. Still, he couldn’t quite bring his fingers to dial the number. This was ridiculous. The old Chilton wasn’t afraid of calling people. The old Chilton got things done. He took a deep breath, dialed the number, and fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Markos was wearing a black tank top and he looked amazing, his skin practically glowing. Now that his headache and hunger were gone, and with this living Greek sculpture in front of him, Chilton began to feel self-conscious. Maybe this was a mistake. What did this beautiful – and very young, he had to be twenty-two at the most – man want with him? He was sure he didn’t look very good. His scars were one thing, but he was also recovering from a hangover. And his hair - still so short from the surgery that had necessitated them shaving his head - was fuzzy with no product, and had a lot more greys in it than he remembered. So different from the perfectly coiffed hair he'd had a lifetime ago.

All of that melted away when Markos put his hands on him. They were so warm and soft and somehow knew exactly how Chilton liked to be touched. Maybe he was also a masseur. He was jolted out of this dreamlike state when Markos started to run his hands up under his shirt. He squirmed away, gasping for air.

“I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?” Markos asked. He looked, bless his heart, genuinely concerned.

“No. I’m sorry,” Chilton said, his cheeks aflame. He couldn’t believe he’d just done that. Of course Markos was going to leave now. He’d scared him off just like he was probably going to scare people for the rest of his life.

But Markos stayed, looking at Chilton expectantly. “Is it OK if I touch you? I won’t touch you there again if you don’t like it.”

Chilton looked at him and realized that if he didn’t deal with this now, in a foreign country with a willing (and gorgeous) man in front of him, he never would. He took his shirt off, hoping Markos wouldn’t notice how much his hands were trembling, and tossed it to the ground.

Markos reached out and gently traced his scar, smiling when Chilton shivered. “How did you get this?”

Oh god, there it was. The question he’d been dreading. “Someone hurt me,” he said, and felt his eyes fill with tears. They were, he was shocked to find, not tears of sadness, but of relief. The thing he’d been dreading the most had happened at last, and had actually not been so bad. He couldn’t believe it.

Markos nodded. He still hadn’t asked about Chilton’s face, but he seemed to understand something now. Without another word, he unzipped Chilton’s pants, looking up to see if Chilton approved. He did. He took his already-stiffening cock into his mouth, and Chilton gripped the sheets, arching his back. It had been a long time since he’d had sex of any kind, and this was almost too much for him. He buried his hands in Markos’ soft curls, closing his eyes and enjoying the ride. He really knew what he was doing, and Frederick was worried he was going to come too soon as Markos’ tongue swirled along his length. It took all his strength to hold on, and his breathing gave way to short gasps. He didn’t dare open his eyes because he was sure the sight of Markos’ plump, pretty lips around his cock would send him over the edge. Too late; his hips bucked and his eyes flew open as he came. Markos didn’t seem to mind. Chilton lowered himself onto the bed and let his arm flop over the edge.

“You know,” Markos said after he’d cleaned up, “if you want to go to the beach, I know a good one. Clothes optional.”

“Excuse me?” Chilton pushed himself up on his elbows.

Markos blushed. “So sorry, but I noticed that you came back from the beach really fast the other day. I got the feeling it made you uncomfortable.”

“You’re very observant,” Chilton said, crossing his arms over his stomach. So people _had_ noticed him, after all.

“I have work tomorrow but I can give you directions to the beach if you want to go. No one will judge you there.”

“That would be fine,” Chilton said, his voice beginning to take on its former prim tone, something he hadn’t used in months.

Markos gave him one last sweet smile as he handed him the directions, and then he was gone. He lay back down and closed his eyes.

Chilton was sure he must have picked up the directions to the nude beach a hundred times, but he kept putting them back down. A _nude beach_. That was insane. He couldn’t even handle taking his shirt off at this regular beach. But there was something intriguing about the idea, wasn’t there? Something _liberating_. He was so restless at the hotel. How was this any different than being trapped in the hospital, really? It was just a different setting. A prettier hospital with a pool. He was in a beautiful country with amazing beaches and he wasn’t even going to enjoy them? Had the bullet really taken his confidence as well as his eye and part of his face? He couldn’t let it. He was stronger than this. And he didn’t want to return to Baltimore with tan lines.

It only took Chilton ten minutes to remove his clothes after he arrived at the beach. There were a few people there, but he would ignore them if he had to. He wasn’t familiar with nude beach etiquette but he was sure Markos was right and that the people there wouldn’t judge. After all, they were naked too. And, he was pleased to see, their bodies weren’t even that great. He was clearly the hottest person there, scars and all. That didn’t matter, though. There was no one to impress here. He was a stranger, a man alone with only his injuries for company.

He walked slowly toward the glittering ocean, completely exposed, totally free. He smiled as the water foamed gently around his ankles. He finally felt like himself again. He finally felt whole.


End file.
